


Chaaj'yc Teh Maan

by KarmaMayOrMayNotBeOkay



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars: The Clone Wars (2008) - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe, Clone Wars, Fluff, How Do I Tag, Original Character-centric, Other, Self-Indulgent, The 52nd hogs all the braincells, They're like an entire battalion of irritating older siblings, and then uses them for Only Bad Things, feral jedi, i love them, these aren't chronological, vauge detective noir themes
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-12
Updated: 2021-02-15
Packaged: 2021-03-08 05:40:41
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 8,859
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26966851
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KarmaMayOrMayNotBeOkay/pseuds/KarmaMayOrMayNotBeOkay
Summary: [You know that moment when your so TIRED and so DUMB that you just title your fic 'Far From Original'? Yeah]A very indulgent, almost no angst zone where I pick apart canon, focus on exactly one aspect, and in response I make a Feral!Jedi AU that is honestly mostly OC's because I am reasonably terrified of all of you.The main plot focuses on the 52nd Battalion, which is a bunch of hypercompetent people using their braincells to do dumb shit anyways. Also, half of them have a pretty bad gambling addiction.
Comments: 12
Kudos: 9





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> The first three chapters have been posted elsewhere, but have been edited and reposted here for ease of convivence.

[Also known as, Feral Jedi And What Is Basically An Army Of Children:]

The Republic was spiteful, the Republic was resentful, and in some situations, it was resourceful. Their clone army, something that theoretically shouldn’t exist, proved that. Clones, an army of clones from a very specific Mandalorian template.

It was horrifying, something that shouldn’t exist. Initial samples were stolen, and the rest were somehow obtained consensually. They despaired to even think about it. How could a single Mandalorian even consent to the creation of what was basically an army of slaves? When it’s existence was revealed, several of them had left their temples and flooded the senate, demanding answers for their crime.

The Republic, insufferable to the end, had trapped parts of the Order in a tight situation. They would simply never leave the matter of the clones alone. Some parts were cut off from the rest of the world, some parts were still furrowing over it, some parts were simply trying to desperately, ever so desperately, to stay away from the Republic trap. 

The Order was never truly divided, but it felt like it was on this. None of them supported the idea, had very vehemently protested against it, but the clones existed now, and like every other sentient in the galaxy, had a place and a right to exist. 

It was a different era, and the Order was determined to be better for all of it’s factions, all of its members. In the end, they couldn’t simply spirit away the army, couldn’t make it so no clone would ever need to die on a battlefield. Some wished to do so anyways. It’d be too unreasonable, an excuse long sought after to ruin the Jedi.

The Republic, for the most unusual, and unexplained reasons, had consented to the Order interacting with their forces for the most part. Personally, some factions had scoffed at that. Like the Republic could ever even begin to stop them. They had temples near everywhere, Kamino wasn’t far.

It was a small army, perhaps too small in some ways, but it had its own culture and it’s own hierarchy and eventually, they had gotten insufferably attached. Not the harmful type of attachment, but attachment nonetheless. The _vod’e,_ so precious, couldn’t help but get attached in return.

Eventually, the interaction allotment was explained, not by the Republic, oh no, but the _vod’e_ themselves. They had never delved into it, never thought to contemplate it beyond that initial agreement, until early on one of the younger batches, one of the last batches, had expressed curiosity about working with force users.

The Jedi once more, in force, stormed the senate.

-

The Republic, some cursed under their breath, was apparently hoping for them to get attached so when they extended their offer, they’d actually take it under consideration instead of telling them to go kriff themselves and go back to their temples until some other universal fuss stirred.

To be generals. It was horrifying. A reality many of them wanted to avoid. They had gone to Hutt space, had set up temples in some of the most unlivable places possible, had spent so much time immersing themselves in the force so that they _couldn’t_ be manipulated by the Republic. But here they were, considering giving up the freedom that they had worked so hard for.

Some tried to remember that it had an end date, that they wouldn’t be the antithesis of their code forever. Others had reminded themselves that the _vod’e_ deserved better. Didn’t deserve to be handed off to die. They all knew, admitted it to themselves, to the force, that with Jedi at the helm, the _vod’e_ would have higher chances of making it to see the end. 

-

Not all Jedi consented. And not all Jedi qualified. Those who we’re in training or training someone, in isolation and not willing to leave, or simply those who didn’t have enough empathy, those who knew that they would serve the _vod’e_ poorly. A good chunk simply didn’t want to handle the pressure of lives on their shoulders.

In the end, the ratio of Jedi to vode, when put into official battalions, was still high. The Jedi had quietly prospered behind the scenes, allowing themselves connection and marriage and sometimes, in the right times, children.

As a result, battalions usually had multiple Jedi. The general was usually the one most qualified to lead larger campaigns, and the specialty squads, smaller squadrons of specific _vod’e,_ would commonly had their own Jedi to guide them. Rank didn't matter all that much to them when you could wield the force.

The Jedi didn’t express it well, having changed their code thoroughly and quickly over perhaps a hundred years, but they loved their men, and wished for their happiness. Wanted them to be able to laugh, and look past the war, think about what they’d do in the future.

The Republic may have their generals, but they couldn’t force them to act any differently than how they wished to.

-

The GAR was small, everyone knew that, the clones knew that, the Kaminoans knew that, _Jango_ , knew that. He had simply stopped supplying after some point, had left looking conflicted. They had stopped seeing baby brothers, and the toddlers we’re growing up, and no other batch would replace them. 

The Kaminoans viewed their work indifferent, professionally they claimed. But the GAR was such a large project, compared to their usual normal, and things we’re adjusted for them. After Jango had stopped supplying, they had changed things, stopped decommissioning almost altogether, other than the few, unfortunate _vod’e_ that had turned out.. Different due to the not entirely solid study of Jango’s DNA. Those were few and far between, and the station was always quiet for a few days afterwards. 

More ‘defects’ appeared in batches, but they simply couldn’t afford to wonder why two clones in a batch had hazel eyes, while the rest had gold. If you had behavioral problems, you had a minimum amount of therapy you needed to go through, and a follow up you couldn’t afford to not attend. Mental issues? What were you suited to then? Demolition? Bacta farming? Almost anything other than decommissioning became an option. Individuality ran rampant, and some just watched as the Kaminoans just sighed and went on with their lives.

The GAR might have been small, and somewhat unprofessional, but they were lovable and proud. Strong _vod’e_ who were determined to protect their brothers that needed to stay home, couldn’t go out onto the field. (Because Kamino was home at this point.) 

Jango’s leaving was met with spite, sneers from some of the oldest batches, the ones that still remembered him vividly. They blamed him for leaving their Jedi undermanned, blamed him for the _vod’e_ who couldn’t get perfected DNA, but they knew he was their Mand’alor, and they followed his orders with grudging obligation.

The Republic was scared of their generals, the Republic treated their generals like tools, and the _vod’e_ knew, even if they didn’t like admitting it, that the Jedi had been forced into leading them, had known that that had wanted no part in any more war. They could, would, never admit it aloud, but Jango Fett had one last good idea when he had proposed his plan. Even if they might have hated the man himself.

-

The clones had learned later on that what they saw wasn’t particularly unusual in the Order, but at this point, it was the first time it had come up to any of these young and impressionable beings.

General Galaar and Lieutenant Galaar were married. The _vod’e_ had never met a married couple before. Force knew what the Kaminoans did for bonds. There were questions, some of them made the Lieu snort, and others made the General crash into walls. With every unconventional answer, they just resorted to asking broader questions instead of hyper specific ones.

They learned that no, the marriage was not conventional whatsoever, it was partially a joke influenced by glitterstim withdrawal and an adrenaline rush, and partially to aid whatever taxes were. They claimed to simply be good friends, a pair that raised padawans together in their temple, people who worked on the same jobs and had their invites printed on one sheet.

Frankly, someone needed to tell them to get their heads checked out because friends with the particular bonds they had described didn’t exchange such intimate keldabe kisses. Or maybe they did and the _vod’e_ just really didn’t know what was going on in the galaxy.

Three medics in the Lts. division claimed that it was only a matter of time before one of them cracked, so in response the ARC’s from another crew had bet against them, claiming that Lance Galaar was horrifyingly oblivious and wouldn’t suspect a thing, even if they straight up told him.

That, personally, was a debate for another time. Learning about their CO’s banthashit habits was slightly more important than the fact that they were both obviously blind to emotion.

Lt. Micah Galaar might have been a healer, but they didn’t hesitate to pull some serious kark when it came down to it. Their sergeant was going to beat their head in with their own _kad’au_ one of these days. They were also astonishingly bad at telling people when their temple sent them to do independent missions. Oftentimes they simply came back afterwards and shrugged, pretending that they hadn’t given the shinies heart attacks.

Their husband, a Mandalorian by birth _and_ by culture, only pretended to be better, Lance was almost worse when it came down to specific scenarios. And he didn’t exhibit nearly as much concern as he should when his spouse disappeared for a week. Lts. sergeant would also probably beat his head in too, if not for the almost ever present beskar helm. His unit thought him hilarious some days, and on others made their way to medbay to play sabacc and ignore him entirely when he got into a mood.

Their battalion both absolutely despised them and couldn’t imagine living without them. Their _bui’re_ just needed common karking sense.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Brain says.. slep.. mind says.. cannot slep..

[Also known as, “--Lieutenant _NO!_ ”:]

Sergeant Chekar was a very constantly fed up person. Dealing with as many people as he did would make you that way. Very quickly.

The 52nd was a highly competent battalion, with incredibly low casualties. In a report, it was an outstanding battalion, recommended for harder scenarios. Behind the scenes, It was a mitch matched mess of  _ vod’e _ with behavioural issues and half of their permanent medics had a sadistic streak. The ARC’s we’re in abundance, and while useful, fought extensively. They couldn’t tell if they wanted to love the medics or slit their throats while they slept.

Half of the battalion had a sabacc addiction, enough so that there was a clone that’d paint you custom card sets if you got them the paint and maybe a few credits. It depended. If it wasn’t sabacc, it was betting. Anything from next deployments to General Lance’s next emotional fuck-up.

Commander Hyacinth was the type of person that you wanted to shove up against a wall but also choke out while baring your teeth. He was charismatic, charming, but he made fun of Chekar’s squad once and that was enough for him to want to throw him. He thought because he had a bunch of ARC’s to push around that he was better than Chek. Jokes on him, medics could pull rank on his ass.

To most people, they appeared almost completely like the explementary battalion they we’re expected to be. Wearing their purple paint with pride. And on the battlefield, they  _ were _ . It just so happened that all the drama happened behind closed doors like good clones. And by god did they have a lot of kriffing drama.

The 52nd had a mighty high percentage of defects, when Chekar was decanted, it was less common, but with every batch it seemed to become a higher rate. He himself had to go a few therapy sessions, and was still removed from the commander track. It irked on him, but watching ‘Cin scramble to do his job effectively made up for it.

Colors, height, he was even pretty sure someone had vitiligo somewhere around here. But mostly, it was emotional imbalances. A few more serious cases, clones with anxiety and depression we’re medicated, because the GAR needed every  _ vod’e _ they could. Some of them would catch Kaminoans cursing out Jango sometimes, but never, ever, them.

The 52nd was a mess who lived in coexistence, watching the assignments go by. The mourned together, they painted together, they scandalized other battalions together. A few of them had to go to medbay to pop a few pills in the morning, and that was okay.

Some clones switched pronouns, couldn’t stand the sight of veins, dyed their hair eccentric colors. According to rumor the Kaminoans originally wouldn’t stand stuff like that, but at this point people could find the apparently perfected species drinking caf straight out of pots and hissing that they didn’t sign up to raise a bunch of teenagers.

Their training was a rough patch, something they stumbled through until some Mandalorians offered their service. It wasn’t perfect, but they were effective and most of them got additional training from their Jedi anyways. As a result, the  _ vod’e  _ knew curses from all around the galaxy, and also got validated a lot.

When Chek had graduated, one of the field medic trainers had picked him up and cried into his shoulder. He desperately hoped she never did that again, it was embarrassing, even though the rest of his graduating squad got the same treatment.

Serving under the Lieutenant was pretty different than Kamino. Harder for one. Lt. Galaar was a hazard to society, and he dreaded the day he had to give them up. They mostly did medical, due to their knighting trials, they explained, but when needed, would go onto the field and absolutely  _ tear  _ through droves of droids like they we’re taking a stroll. Chekar desperately wanted to know why they didn’t send them out more.

He had learned a lot under his Lt. stuff about them, stuff about the Jedi in general. Micah Viern would have been raised as a commando as their husband had been, but instead decided to study at the Kelbade temple when their force sensitivity got out of hand and almost destroyed their cousin’s hand. They talked about it easy enough, but the corners of their lips trembled just slightly.

They used a single bladed  _ kad’au _ , almost went into the career path of a smith or shadow, and had only started studying medicine four years before they had become a Galaar. That was the same night the 52nd learned a weird amount about traditional Jedi weddings. Most of that night was betting. Lots of betting. And contraband alcohol.

Their Jedi didn’t speak much, mostly shrugged and signed when they were too tired to muster up their vocal cords. A few of them had made efforts to pick up galactic sign to ease them up somewhat. Their husband mostly spoke for them if stuff needed interpreting in a larger setting. 

Chekar had to admit, just a tiny bit, that he didn’t like the General. For personal reasons. They knew little about him, he led mostly ARC’s. He had married the Lieu, and took him off the market. Apparently as at least partially a joke. He wasn’t into his CO, not really, but he knew some clones we’re. Personally, Micah was probably considered more of a  _ buir  _ than anything. _.  _

They took care of everyone, worked desperate hours to save as many as possible, and they made themselves uncomfortable for the clones convenience, forcing themselves to speak constantly. Chek was seen as the aggressive officer that’d pull rank over you in a heartbeat. Another defective product who couldn’t tell the difference between love and hate sometimes. He both couldn’t stand them sometimes, and wanted to wrap them in a blanket and never let go.

He also desperately, desperately loved his brothers. Like so many of the clones. Almost every batch had a brother with a defect. Sometimes something small like lighter hair, other times, worst of times, they needed surgery to function. The Kaminoans we’re the best cloners in the galaxy however, and refused to give their work up to the  _ Ka’ra _ early. 

-

In another universe, there would have been four times as many of them. There would have been an  _ ori'vod _ named Boba, the Alphas would have been meaner to them, knowing that there were plenty of standards to go around, and they would never, ever, have considered the Kaminoans their  _ Cabur’e _ . Battalions would have been large things, manned by singular jedi. There would have been padawans in the war. And in the end, the clones would have killed them.

Here, the  _ vod’e _ slept peacefully, the Alphas we’re desperate  _ ori’vod _ , fiercely protective, the Kaminoans saved hundreds of them, bared their teeth at fate for them. And the Jedi, the Jedi thrived. In communities, and families, everywhere possible for them to live.

Here, there was no order sixty-six. No chips to control their actions. Instead, the  _ vod’e _ we’re independent, and would follow their  _ Mand’alor’s _ last order when the time came, spiteful towards him until the end.

And the Republic would finally burn.


	3. Chapter 3

[Also known as, “..Is that allowed.” “IT IS NOW TROOPER.”:]

Commander Hyacinth was scowling. That didn’t sound right. Never did. Commander Hyacinth was charismatic and efficient and didn’t  _ scowl _ . Scowling, complaining, tossing  _ vod’e  _ on their ass in partial aggression, partial concern. That was Sergeant Chekar’s job.

But Sergeant Chekar was apparently too busy breaking the karking regs to give a kriff about what Hyacinth had to resort to. It irked on him, and Hyacinth very clearly did not stop marching down the hallway, following the very obvious sound of confused and cooling  _ vod’e.  _

Scouts and medics and troopers alike jumped out of his warpath, and by the time he had made it, a few curious brothers had started to hesitantly trail behind him, wanting to know what had made the Commander so upset.

He slammed the door open, glared at the  _ vod’e  _ in front of him and they mostly cleared the path in response. He nudged stranglers out of the way, and went to stand in front of the two clones taking up one of the highly uncomfortable couches in this particular rec room.

Torch glared at him, holding a singular finger up to their lips. Sitting at the base of the couch instead of on it. They we’re leaning against another  _ vod’e’s  _ leg. Hyacinth, despite being accused otherwise, was not in fact, dumb enough to ask for his face to get torn off if he approached another foot towards them.

Instead of getting mauled by Torch again, he carefully maintained his distance, and eyed up Chekar. No wonder Torch was being a pissy bitch, Sergeant Chekar was asleep for once, a soft expression on his face, one hand tangled in the fur of a very regs illegal cat, leaning back on one of the arm rests. 

The scrappy thing didn’t look like any loth-cat he had ever seen, and it probably more closely resembled a spukama, with it’s black markings and clever golden eyes, alongside the face shape that blended into the rest of its body, instead of the big and circular shapes of loth’s.. But spukama’s we’re Cornelian, pitch black and did  _ not  _ tolerate as many humans as this one was.

It purred, kneaded it’s black ‘boots’ into Chek’s lap and the man in question sighed in his sleep.

Torch was going to go for his legs if he decided to mess that up. He knew. Their snarl was already splitting the faulty pigmentation on their face. And Hyacinth, now knowing the situation, tried to drop the Chekar attitude he had been giving off and put an unbothered look on his face.

The, god only knew what  _ Torch  _ did, very clearly didn’t take it, and very pointedly stared at the door he had come in, and back at him.

He was going to leave or Torch was going to make him leave. That was the message he was getting here. Too bad for Torch. The cat needed to be reported, and as soon as he got into that hallway, General Galaar was getting commed.

He obliged, smug, and didn’t flinch at the door slamming shut after him. Little noise, little extra fanfare than their usual. When the hell was the last time Chek slept for his squad to hover so much and not even report the cat?

He was annoyed, but his expression didn’t change. Chek  _ did  _ need to sleep. What Chek didn’t need to do was break the regs again. He was a sergeant, and he had a reputation to uphold to whatever shinies got thrown their way.

He would’ve gone straight to the general, broke out his comm, but the Lieutenant would likely want to know about Chek, so he begrudgingly changed course and marched to the office that the Lieu was usually drowning themselves with paperwork in.

He knocked, polite as ever, and a bleary face stared back at him barely seconds later. Damn force shenanigans. It was remarkable what differences the two Galaar’s had when it came to the Order. The Lieu didn’t even bother to pretend.

Their black hood was askew, showing off more of the soft red hair than they usually did. The ends disappeared into what was clearly a modified clone gorget, painted with delicate details done in 52nd purple. They had one hand perched on the doorframe and blinked up at him.

“Lieutenant, Sergeant is in recreation room two, with a rather illegal cat of some sort.” He greeted. The Lieu tilted their heads, and mimed  _ something  _ in galactic sign. God, he can’t believe he was saying this, but Torch would have  _ actually  _ been useful for once.

He stepped out of the doorway anyways, when the Lieu made their way out. Considering how tired they looked, he dubiously thought that they wouldn’t get half the way before they fell face down on the floor and some poor clone found them and had to pry them up.

He really should’ve reported to the General in person, but the Lieu was literally wobbling, and it was concerning. Reminded him too much of the new batch of shinies messed up after their first panel of bloodwork.

God, he hated Chek, he was even using his dumb medical references. He grimaced.

He carefully put one arm under the Lieu, and on his shoulder. This would be faster. At this point he just wanted someone to chew out the cat. 

Once they had stumbled all the way there, Hyacinth rapped on the door, and the clones on the other side opened it begrudgingly. They almost shut it when they saw his armor, but paused at the Lieu that he was very clearly only keeping up out of pure willpower.

He was allowed to march into the rec room, but Torch zeroed in on him and strided up to steal the Lieu. There. He was done here. Someone could file a report in the morning and he could just  _ die  _ now.

Chek had appeared to have opened his eyes at some point, and a clone hissed when they noticed, but Chek spotted him, continued to pet the still purring cat in his lap, and, if he hadn’t known better about his condition, very seriously informed him. Like a drunk  _ vod  _ who felt like they needed to treat common information like deep dark secrets.

“Her name is Penelope, and you can pry her from my cold dead arms.” He said it solemnly. The cat wiggled, showing off her shiny white coat with it’s pitch black stripes. He still had no idea what it was, to be fair.

  
Hyacinth looked down at him dryly, shoving down a sigh. He had a feeling no one was going to chew out the cat. “Sure  _ cyar'ika _ , whatever you say.”


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A new clone (Who needs a number, and a tag, honestly.) Filler character provided via the disc, via Ardent Cheshire. Thank ya.

[Also known as, Product Of A Dream.]

Crank hissed, reeling back. Something was _definitely_ wrong with The Adamant. Her coolant did _not_ want to do its job, and that was highly concerning. She was probably going to be forced to contort herself in the engine the next time they could afford to actually turn her off.

She propped one leg on the closest stable surface and gave herself a solid push backwards. The rubber tread of her maintenance boots tried to stick for the slightest moment and Crank groaned. This was a bigger issue than heat, but the heat itself was damn annoying. One of her brothers was definitely going to find an excuse to tease her about it.

Sliding out of the maintenance shaft was easy enough, she had done this most of the time since she decanted, but she still stumbled slightly when her feet were propped up on solid floor again. She tried to push herself up with her hands, and mostly succeeded, but reeled back again once her left made contact. Well. Someone had an appointment with medbay.

She strided down the hall, made a right turn, and cringed at the squeak of her ever so slightly melted boot on the floor. Her headband itched on the back of her neck, but she refused to acknowledge it. The heat would not overcome her. She’d fix the coolant problem before that happened. 

The chief engineers office was at the end of the hallway, and she had already made her way here. She really didn’t wanna go in there, to be honest. The paperwork was already calling. A trip to the medbay on ship, another status log, a karking slip for a break. She hoped _someone_ got a kick out of her suffering somewhere. She was glad the hallway was empty, at least.

She opened the door, and poked her head in. Probably made a sight with her hair held back and the almost never ending sweat. The door creaked as she leaned on it slightly. The chief was looking at a hologram for something. She’d give it a minute before they finally looked up.

Crank was silently mouthing down the seconds, and sure enough, scarcely three seconds into the first minute, Jabril looked up from what he was doing, and blinked twice at her appearance in the doorway. She took this as a cue to enter entirely, and so shoved herself into the surprisingly small office. For all she knew he just slept in the vents, considering that she had never spotted him and a bed in the same vicinity. 

He clicked the hologram off, and looked up at Crank bleary-eyed. If he was any other person, he might’ve asked her what time it was with that expression. She sighed, and didn’t bother to ease the parade rest she had fallen into.

Jabril slid the projection device to the side of his desk. “What can I help you with Crank?” He stifled a yawn. Crank eyed him like he was going to kneel over. “I need to head over to medbay. Might as well give me the paperwork now so I’m not completely bored.” She replied dryly. 

The chief blinked again, before his expression twisted into something a little more irritated. “Please don’t tell me you're taking off work to go place another one of those bets you all think we don’t know about.” He outright scowled. But one of his hands was slipping into the drawer to grab the paperwork she’d need to file out.

She took a deep inhale. “Yeah, sure Bril. I just kriffing manhandled one of those force-damned pipes that have been acting up. Didn’t expect it to be basically boiling.” She was being slightly sarcastic, but it was entirely the truth. She held up her left arm, and twisted it around to show the red burn encompassing the bronze tone of her palm and part of her forearm.

Jabril inhaled sharply, and pulled out the sheets. He hissed when she reached out for them with the burned hand and quickly shoved them in reach of her right. “Force, Crank, you could have started with that.” His expression was the same, but she could spot the concern. “Take a while off, if you really need it. Don’t let Yavin steal you away until the end of time either.” Valid concerns, really. God only knew what the medics got up to.

She grasped the sheets with her right, and tucked them and a swiped pen into a pocket on her thigh. “Thanks sir, I’ll be fine, Chekar should make sure I get home in one piece.” She joked. The chief still looked concerned, but didn’t bother to protest as she headed out.

A few minutes of walking, and a solid two more of almost getting dragged into no less than five conversations later had Crank in front of the medbay. She very carefully did not lean on the doorway, as she typically tended to. One quick rap of the knuckles had her standing face to face with Chek himself, which was pretty uncommon.

He didn’t bother to say anything, and immediately spotted the arm she had been ignoring. He ushered her into medbay and set her on one of the cots most everyone was convinced the medics just lived in. He bustled away to grab _something. ‘_ Tive spotted her, and curiously poked his head beyond the curtain her cot was behind.

“I’m figuring that since Chekar looks like a mother hen right now that you're actually hurt, and not just pissing your supervisor off to win a few credits.” He summarised. Crank shrugged, and showed off the burnt skin for the second time that day. He winced. Before she could spout a warning, Chek seemingly manifested and shoved ‘Tive to the side with a particularly cruel elbow. “Leave her alone ‘Tive.” He hissed.

The sergeant shuffled in, and opened a drawer next to the closest pole. He didn’t like making much conversation, really. Crank spoke up anyways, figuring it important enough. “Keep Penelope out of the vents right now, sarge. They’re just getting hotter and engineering is having a hard enough time keeping the temperature down.” She warned. Chek looked back at her, and that was confirmation enough that Penelope was likely going to be the most bribed being on the ship for the next month at least.

He came forward with some sort of salve, and twisted her wrist around carefully. Looking at the damage. “What the hell did you do, anyways?” He inquired. Crank wanted to run a hand through her short mop, but didn’t want to mess with Chek’s work. She hesitated only slightly. “Eh. I was checking up on one of the pipes, because of a complaint I got from one of the eastern barracks and I ended up getting a bit too close up there. Damn thing melted my boots too.” She looked mournfully at the morphed tread. 

Chek took two gloved fingers and dipped them in the salve, smearing the stuff over her palm and forearm. He didn’t reply, but he had gotten his answer. They both got a shock, when the Lieu seemingly manifested from _somewhere._ The person in question pushed the curtain back, resulting in Chek looking back to see who was there. He jumped, and the fingers ended up smearing farther and _pressing._

Crank yowled, and Chek cursed and lifted his fingers off immediately. The Lieu pressed their hand to their face, wincing. Chekar swiveled his head. “Kriff, I’m sorry _vod._ I shouldn’t be so jumpy.” He apologized. The Lieu signed a quick ‘Sorry’ of their own mere second later. Crank hissed a breath out, but waved him off.

Chek went to grab more of the salve, but the Lieu interrupted him, and motioned to take his seat. Chekar got up hesitantly, but walked off once the Lieu had shooed them a sufficient number of times, still looking back.

The Lieu took their arm in hand, and after observing, went to put on a glove themself. Crank nawed on her lip slightly. “Hey, Lieu, it’s fine, don’t worry about it too much.” She reassured them. The Jedi in question shot them a look, and she submitted to the prodding meekly.

Their rasp rang out quietly, and Crank didn’t entirely get it, to be honest. “I dreamt about the 52nd a long time ago, I should take care of you.” They said, softly.

Crank resisted the urge to try to make another gesture. “I uh. I really don’t know what that means, sir.” She admitted. Micah only smiled, and carefully resumed the work on her burn. “Jedi see things, sometimes. Some of us are more prone to it than others. When I was in the middle of training my last padawan, I had glimpses of armor whenever I slept.” They explained.

They held the forearm delicately, and turned it over. “I wouldn’t know this until later, but this had happened to many of us.” They continued to rub in the salve, while quietly droning on. “We were meant for you, Crank, and you for us.” The expression on the Lieutenants face was enough to probably make Lance reconsider the terms of their marriage. And Cranks heart leapt, just slightly. That sounded too good to be true, really. Not a fate for the clones, but the look on their face was soft enough, that’d she’d indulge the Lieutenant for now.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crank, armed with a new scar and the insomnia of kings, goes down into the depths.

[Also known as, Adamant Whiskey]

Crank was overworked. She worked a full schedule everyday of the week, didn’t really get shore leave unless one of her brothers decided that watching her suffer was a bit too much, and as of recent, she suspected that some of those aforementioned brothers we’re using her exhaustion as a front for something else.

She hadn’t managed to get a new pair of boots yet, and Jabril had apologized for that, but Crank thought they had personality anyways, and had waved it off. She had just evened out the soles with a knife she had casually lifted off Yavin.

He wouldn’t notice anyways, she grimly thought. Crank lifted the cover off the maintenance shafts and dropped down onto her feet. The frame she was decanted with barely even shuttered. One of the better advantages of having Mandalorian flesh, despite not being able to use normal elevators in armor.

Not that Crank was ever in armor since she was deployed. She thought.

The ship’s underbelly wasn’t frequented often by anyone other than the people that were supposed to be here, like Crank and Bharath, and the clones that decided to disrespect the invisible territory lines that maintenance and engineering set out.

Crank spent most of her time actually working, so she didn’t catch her brothers in cold blood often, but sometimes, if they lingered too long, or Crank just happened to have been there, shinies tended to get the kark scared out of them until they learned better.

It wasn’t all shinies, but those tended to be the first offenders, and the ones they gave in too quick. Older clones, ones from the original deployment even, tended to be the ones who probably knew the shafts near as good as engineering did.

Clones like that tended to be stubborn beasts, one’s who wanted to keep deals secret or hide stock down where they assumed nothing would be found. Typically, that was a bad assumption to have. 

The 52nd had two Jedi, and together they reigned over the two halves of the ship, as they called it. It wasn’t unusual for a clone in purple to prefer one to another. They often joked about the two Jedi holding court over parts of it. Lance, with his infantry and ARC’s, and Micah, who held a veil of a grip over the factions of clones keeping the ship running.

Sometimes, times like this, when someone who shouldn't have ventured into a place they didn’t belong, it felt more like something serious. Sure, it wouldn’t hurt someone permanently, but some clones held less sense than others, and it was best to scare them off the path while you still could.

Crank’s boots didn’t creak on the metal. Micah didn’t appreciate stills where they shouldn’t be, or oftentimes, in general. They didn’t make it known often, but it was one of those things the redhead couldn’t stand.

Recently, with the brand new heating issues, and the slightly more nervous clones, Crank had a suspicion that something had popped up where it shouldn’t be. ‘Tive, with enough attention, was one of those clones that’d talk about whatever they thought was relevant. Apparently, surprise, surprise, things were going missing from Chekar’s medbay.

Together, they painted a picture that ended with Crank squeezing through half of the Adamant’s underside before morning. Delightful.

-

Topside wasn’t the smartest clone around, and he’d admit to that readily enough. But he was good at what caught his attention long enough. Like snatching things he shouldn’t have, or staying out of Lance’s blast radius when something well, went topside. 

He knew what he was doing as soon as Az had asked him to lift some extra bacta from medical, and he dreaded the fate in store for him if Az’s crew karked up. But, he owed them several favors, so there really wasn’t a better alternative.

Az was the type of clone that smiled with teeth, and made Topside shutter. He wasn’t entirely a fan of them, but he did what they asked anyways, and tried his very best to stay out of it. No one wanted to hear about a still on Adamant. Some mouthy scout would hear, and then it’d make it to a trooper, and then it’d make its way through medbay, where ‘Tive and Yavin and Chekar would deal out whatever they could, and then they’d send it off the engineering.

No one, absolutely no one, wanted an engineer after them. The chief might’ve been a natborn, but he got clone politics well, and the crew right under him were rightfully terrifying. If a still got caught, so would the clone. That was always how it worked. Crank was safe enough, as dedicated to her job as she was, but she was also a bloodhound. If Flicker or Ves couldn’t find it, they’d send it off to their sister.

The problem with hiding stills, was that there was always a trail. A rat, someone who talked. Maybe you’d take too much bacta at once, but sometimes, it might be the guys who got the product. Croaking once they got their fill.

If you didn’t run into one of those problems, it really was dependent on where the still was. There were a few brewers on ship, and only some were publicly known. Micah knew about some of them, knew who was retired, and who bought their materials on leave. Micah could always tell which brews were safe. But those safe brews were expensive, because the stills were good, and wouldn’t cause problems.

Rouges went out and made bantha crap stills. Ones that broke or needed too much upkeep or made a brother sick after too much product. But they were cheap. In material. It was never cheap in moral price. Because the thing about those is that they always got found.

Az thought he was clever, and maybe, compared to someone like Topside, he was. But Az wasn’t a brewer. Just a brother trying to earn a few favors. And this might’ve been his mistake. He put a still in a place Flicker wouldn’t have gone in good conscience.

Topside, for a while, thought it was all in good fun. Up until brothers started getting sick, and the Adamant kept on getting hotter, and hotter, until Lance and Micah, Mandalorians to the core, were the only ones left unbothered.

So Topside didn’t feel guilty at all when he scheduled an appointment with Jabril, and told the Bloodhound where to find her quarry.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Implemented some New Headcanons!! Also vaguely inspired by Blackkat.  
> -Clones being Heavy  
> -The Elevator Thing  
> Born and raised Mando'ad like Micah, grew up on a planet unfavorable for human life. You can bet they've got some perks from that.
> 
> Crank really gets into cracking down on her brothers being dumbasses. Also, the Adamant is scary as fuck but don't tell engineering that. They won't believe you.
> 
> Topside is a new clone named by FavoriteGinger, who at this point, I would probably fight god for.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I didn't expect to double update, but here? Surprise?? (If you comment I'll owe you exactly 1/7th of my soul.)

[Also known as, Blood In The Air]

Topside felt sick. And rightfully, in the minds of an awful lot of people, it was perfectly fine if he wasn’t. Because, in the eyes of his brothers, of those who mattered, this was rightful justice. And Topside was doing them all a favor.

But, that didn’t stop the feeling. No one liked to rat on a brother. Not even if they were doing something really harmful like this. And it really, really didn’t feel all that great. Maybe if he was a different clone, he’d be able to walk into that office, and out with a clean conscience. 

Az was just a dumbass. And that was all he wanted to think for a long while. Up until the Adamant began to boil. The temperature rose, and everyone thought that engineering would fix it. And engineering did help. They tried so hard to do all they could to keep it in a comfortable temperature range. But it just kept getting worse, and Az started coming to him for favors with progressively worse expressions on his face.

And after that, Topside knew. It was his responsibility to report it before more clones got sick, and more engineers got hurt. Jabril himself had already had to start climbing into the shafts, even after all of his kids (because really, what else were Ves and Crank and them?) had urged him not too. The Zabrak had won that argument after he brought up Crank’s arm.

His stomach felt like it was rising to his throat, his bulk no longer steady, a product of Mandalore, but more of a weight on his bones. He didn’t want to do this. But he had to do this. It was for the best.

Topside opened the door.

-

Jabril, like most every person in a position of command on the Adamant, was exhausted. The weariness ran down to his bones. His hair was tied up on the back of his head, and his horns were duller than they had been since he had to help design the Adamant herself. It wasn’t a good look on him.

Crank had leads. And that was never a good thing. Leads lead to clones, and that meant that somewhere, a clone had been involved. He ran a hand down his face and exhaled. He hated dealing with the clones that made dumb descions like these. Normally, he wasn’t very scary at all, just the old Zabrak with the missing leg who motherhenned his crew.

But everytime, without fail, some clone would make a mistake, and one of his crew would drag them down here like a loth-wolf proudly showing their mother a piece of prey. It always made him feel like absolute bantha crap whenever fear crossed their faces. But it was their mistake for thinking they could get away for doing what they did down in the engineering shafts. Some of them were forgivable, boys who wanted to hide a prized possession from a jealous vod, or clones who just wanted a good place to chat and play sabbac.

He really wished more of them would just come down here and ask. So many problems could be avoided if that was the case. But something in the 52nd made it seem impossible in their minds. He had endeared himself to plenty, but even his crew didn’t want to open up about things to him. He figured it was something about him being a natborn, and probably, also not being Micah Galaar.

But to be fair, not everyone could be Micah. That was a tough role. He laughed at his own paltry joke. He had an appointment, and he almost dreaded what he would be getting out of it. People rarely ever approached him directly.

-

Crank was dirty. She was covered in soot, something that realistically shouldn’t have been produced by the Adamant’s engines unless in dire straits, and death was in her eyes. Her jumpsuit was near black, and the vest that she normally wouldn’t have taken off had been discarded.

The worst part, really, was seeing Crank’s hair down. She was forced to take her wrap off after a point, and had given up after the first elastic had snapped. The Mandalorian was radiating residual heat, and she was shoving the shoulders off of her jumpsuit when Flicker had caught her. She was his vod, so he was barely phased when Crank threw her tank at him, but he still winced when her scar tissue was on full display.

She sat down, huffed, and turned those death eyes towards him. Flicker cautiously sat down across from her, and after a moment's consideration, shoved his own jumpsuit top down. He wasn’t quite like his vod though, so he kept his tank on, and simply tied the jumpsuit sleeves around his waist.

Maybe the dumb moment of consideration had eased something in Crank, but she eased down somewhat. Damn Mandalorian brain, interfering when no one wanted it to. His vod took her time, shaking out her hair, taking off her boots and putting them back on again. Something was really bothering her.

Flicker leaned forward slowly. “So, who do I need to toss in a ditch? I’m pretty sure General Lance owes me a favor, we could make it happen.” He purposely says it in the most serious tone he can muster. The one that Crank hears and scoffs at without fail.

Crank fails. Her shoulders slump. Flicker is immediately concerned.

“I’m pretty sure if you asked enough, Jabril would throw them out the docking bay. We could do it, Ves wouldn’t even ask.” This time, it musters some sort of noise out of his vod. Thank the little gods. Flicker isn’t even faking an expression this time.

Crank finally drags her head up to look at him. He wishes he could say nicer things about his vod, but she really looks like a sad gundark right now. All of the clones have been looking like they’re thirty something since they decanted, but Crank is looking like the template himself right now.

Crank would probably tear his face off if he said that right now. Which is why he did, because really, she needs a distraction from the murder impulses. “You look like Jango.” He offers.

She, as expected, glares in his direction. People have been jokingly calling her Jan since she was three standard. It wasn’t exactly a good nickname. But she doesn’t make a move to lunge for him. She’s exhausted.

Flicker’s face goes through a wide variety of expressions before it settles on something like concern. He gets up and offers her an arm. Crank yanks it hard enough to topple him, if he wasn’t the same elevator menace of a person he might’ve. It’s part of the reason why Jabril is so impressive, able to hold one of them back.

She grudgingly gets up, and doesn’t bother to put her shirt back on. Dammit. Flicker sighs. “Vod, clothes are a part of common decency.” She pointedly raises a brow in his direction. Flicker doesn’t falter. “Topside and Bril have too much decency to look at you shirtless vod.” The remark is more of a jab. 

Crank rolls her eyes, and sweeps up her tank in one smooth movement. She doesn’t bother putting it back on until she’s started to walk back to the Chief’s office. Flicker thinks that’s about as much as he’s getting from her. He grimaces at the soot rubbed off onto his own tank as she goes.

It’s a moment of deliberation before Flicker looks back for a second. Cranks is half way down the hall when he decides what he’s doing. It takes barely a minute to break into Jabril’s locker, and barely two seconds to fish out a spare tie. Crank’s uncomfortable enough, and this is the least he can do for his vod.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Flicker being a good vod, Topside having a conscience, Crank not caring for the sensibilities of men.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Finally capping off this damn arc! Good for me lol.

[Also known as, Sides And Tides A’Turnin] 

Engineering had slinked off, going back down into their corner of the ship, resuming work as usual. The heat had noticeably dissipated near a week after Crank had gone sniffing around. Some had joked that engineering had finally gotten bored of watching them sweat.

Lance was able to resume drills, and with the finally occupied troops, the atmosphere of the Adamant had finally settled into something far more the usual. Things were finally somewhat normal, as far as that word could be used in the GAR.

Medical was no longer as thoroughly occupied by everything, and as a result, had finally had the time to check the stores. Micah had been noticeably shoved out of participating in that affair. Which, in all fairness, was probably for the best. 

The ledger produced did not match the rate of usage of materials, and it was with a horrible feeling that the clones had to be completely unsurprised at this. Chekar was considering locks. But Micah and Yavin had taken one pointed look at the few drawers that did have locks. Noticeably, that they were all so worn down on the inside that even ‘Tive could probably break in.

The Republic wasn’t very good at dishing out supplies, no matter how many crises that battalions kept on ramming face into. The 212nd really were just full of wildlife professionals at this point, and the 105th could be satisfied with half rations any day of the week, considering how often they got stranded.

The 52nd, in comparison, was full of clones who stole stuff, redistributed it, and then tried to sell it for something else. Up until the locals or Lance got after them. They thrived in the same places that pirates might, and it wasn’t always a ringing term of endearment. Naturally, they cherished every second of leave they could get.

Once, Palpatine had tried to have them follow more regulations than they probably had to on missions, and naturally, the Jedi vetoed that as soon as they heard a whisper of it, and the Corrie’s had temporarily dropped their effortless masks they put on in the senate.

The old temple there had long been reclaimed by Coruscant's booming population, and the Jedi, nomadic to a fault, had simply eased into hiding away in the clone barracks, no matter how many times rooms were offered, or clones expressed their horror with the idea.

The Adamant’s supplies should have lasted them into another campaign, but the coolant issue, despite being reported time and time again, hadn’t earned the clones any extra supplies from the depot. So, Micah and Lance, after holding ‘court’ with the pudeso leaders around the ship, had decided to waste some of their ever so precious shore leave days on giving the clones a break, and requesting more supplies. 

The Mandalorians had cursed and swore in as many languages as there were stars every time a request was denied, but they had pushed on this one, hard enough the Palpatine was forced to recognize it. The other battalions might’ve called it luck and persistence, but the 52nd had called it a work of favors.

The Coruscant Guard, on an unrelated note, owed Micah Galaar several life debts. Convenient. Doing the extra paperwork the senate pushed on them had finally led to something good. Fox wouldn’t have ever been able to sleep if they hadn’t moved the extra work around. The clones rightfully feared that Palpatine might have done something, otherwise.

Micah might’ve called it covering for a vod, but their weary eyes, and the Guard’s gratefulness implied otherwise. Having Thorn slip a request that realistically should’ve been there in the first place onto the Chancellor’s desk was really the least they could do for them.

That, combined with the 52nd recent performance under duress, they really had earned the leave. A full leave, not one where half the crew was stuck onboard fixing stuff while everyone else tried to cheat batchmates out of their credits. Jabril could possibly go drag his kids to the college, and maybe Lance would have the time to introduce Simurgh to a better medium for his hobby than his brother's flesh. However willing it might’ve been.

Some clones found solace in places they didn’t belong, wicked or warm, or unusually cultural. Others might find solace in each other, finding the time to do something other than rounds or drills or such. Little Kelbade saw a large influx of northerners who looked weirdly identical. 

Micah screamed. Micah didn’t scream often. The scar tissue of their throat had made such a thing permanently difficult. But sometimes, needs must be met. The senate could sit there in silence, and Micah would never stop screaming about the injustice and the citizenship, and the real, flesh and blood and soul people being unknowingly enslaved.

And, once the work was done, and the senators averted their gazes from each other, conflicted. Micah would go lay in the barracks, and drink tea while Obi-Wan threw his hands up about the latest dumb plan his padawan had come with on the other side of a holo.

And that was really all the 52nd needed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I really don't have many ideas these days, so feel free to submit little worldbuilding tidbits or prompts down in your comments!


End file.
